


Colours of Memory

by mspennydreadful



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3694397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mspennydreadful/pseuds/mspennydreadful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blue police box under an orange sky, the green glow of the TARDIS interior. A thousand shimmering stars.  When her travelling is done, Martha Jones dreams in color.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colours of Memory

She dreams in colour now, and it doesn't occur to her that it should be unusual until it does, one day, for no reason at all. A blue police box under an orange sky, the green glow of the TARDIS interior. A thousand shimmering stars. The copper-green of the Statue of Liberty. Red and white showgirl-feathers. The colours of her life, writ vividly in her dreams.

She dreams of running, flat out, lungs fit to burst. His hand in her own. Exhilaration and terror, and she wakes up, breathless and alive, laughs, and pads barefoot into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She's taken up running recreationally now, and her pair of trainers -- orange, like the curtains in her old flat -- sit on the front step, ever-ready, just in case.

She dreams of failing, of a paradox enduring, paradise lost and fallen angels. She can see the faces of all the people she met in that one year, looking at her accusingly. She dreams of failing them, of life as a slave, but not often. And a quick telephone call to Cardiff, to talk about nothing at all is enough to cast off the echoes of those dreams. She didn't fail, and everyone and everything is testament to that, even though they'll never know.

She dreams of him, but that's nothing new. A devil-may-care grin and a shock of messy brown hair, eyes frantic and striving to keep moving, moving on, moving so fast that memory can't catch up with him. It's like watching someone running from a shambling monster in a film -- for all they run, run, run, the slow steady pace of the creature catches up to them. She dreams of Gallifrey, her brain piecing together the Doctor's words and all he hasn't said, creating a vision for her of a world that could have birthed both him and Saxon. It's beautiful and stark in her mind, like a cathedral, eternal stone. She always finds the Doctor there and she takes him by the hand.

She dreams in colour, for no real reason that she can divine. The teal walls of a flat that went up in orange-gold flames, Jack Harkness' twinkling eyes like the sky after a storm, the cobalt of the Doctor's suit and the deep red of his habitual converse trainers. Without colours, they'd all just be memories. And Martha's not ready for them to become 'just memories' yet.

 

 


End file.
